A Moment of Delusion
by RedDarol
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. John comes home one day to find an unexpected visitor. Unable to face Sherlock, John blames his appearance on his own delusions, and treats him as a hallucination. Sherlock is amused, and decides to play along.
1. Chapter 1

**Note;** My First Fanfiction! The first chapter is a bit short, and covers all the antecedent emotions which I wanted to get out of the way :) Enjoy!

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><p>John was wearing his typical beige jumper as he dug out his keys, neatly sliding it into the dark burgundy door of 221B Baker Street. His hands shook slightly as he pushed into the flat, but much less than they used to. Mrs. Hudson's tinkling laughter floated in from the cafe, and for the first time in years, he felt no sorrowful envy of her recovery. He paused there, at the bottom of the stairs, leg aching. <em>Recovery. Recovery after Sherlock...<em>He thought back to their first adventure, running back to the flat after a long cab chase and gasping for breath at that exact spot. He remembered their delusional laughter, and a sad smile crossed his face. Gripping his cane, he manoeuvred carefully up the stairs.

It had been three years since Sherlock's death, and John could still locate the empty hole in his heart. The first few months had been torture; meaningless and wrought with tears. He had gone back to his psychiatrist a couple of times, but she was as useless as ever. Mycroft had stopped by a couple times in the first year, and John cheerfully shut the door in his face during every visit. Mrs. Hudson packed away all of Sherlock's microscopes and lab equipment in neat little boxes, but John tore them apart after the funeral. He ran his fingers obsessively over the glass slides, letting his tears coat the surface of the neatly labelled rectangles. They slipped from his hands and shattered on the kitchen floor. John reached out and cut his fingers on the broken glass. All he could see was Sherlock. Shattered on the pavement, those clear eyes blank and unseeing, as if his great brain had simply evaporated from the broken body.

The second year had been slightly better, but not by much. He returned to his therapist again, simply because he had nothing better to do. She sat in her faded blue armchair as he listened to the rain dancing against the window, drowning out her voice. When he took a moment to respond to her useless words, she forced him to say it out loud; that Sherlock, his best friend, was dead. He had pressed his lips together into a thin, hard line. The thought had been locked away deep in his mind, far away from prying strangers. He would not admit the outrageous truth. But she coaxed and pushed, and the moment he opened his mouth a thousand feelings flew out from his mind and silenced him once more. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he attempted to locate the ammunition for his own gunshot.

"Sherlock, my best friend," He had choked, feeling the pain erupt in the back of his mind. He put a finger to his lips, as if he were trying to push back his words. But they bubbled up past his throat and broke past his weary defence. "He's...dead." It was barely a squeak, and all the life seemed to rush out of him with that word. Dead. John could feel the panic taking over his body, and his leg began to hurt terribly. He pushed himself out of his overly plush chair, which had made him feel nothing but uncomfortable over the years, and rushed out of the room without a second glance. His therapist tapped her pen methodically on her empty notebook. Even she was at a loss for words, unable to analyze the raging emotions within her patient. John Watson would not return to her office, and she quietly packed his file away in the depths of her cabinet.

It was hard, visiting Sherlock's grave. There were flowers this time, but John knew it was a mindless act of sympathy from the cemetery workers. Nobody who knew Sherlock would have bothered to put flowers on his grave. What John didn't notice was the painful glances from the gravediggers as they observed the ex-military doctor who tried to compose himself every week to enter the dreaded field of stones. The money they spared for a single bouquet of lilies and carnations each week, as if to reach out and tell him: You're not alone. But the blonde man just stared at the gravestone in silence, or simply stood at the gate for a moment before hurrying away. He seemed to shrink, month by month, as if a part of him was dying or being eaten away with each visit.

After the failed therapist session and the tumbling words, John finally found a way to speak. He stared at the golden imprint of his friend's name against the black granite, and opened his mouth. He waited for the words to come, to rush out of him. All he felt was an overwhelming rush of regret. He felt broken. A million memories flashed before his eyes, and all of them meaningless in that moment. Because Sherlock was gone. 

_ I thought I would spend the rest of my life with you. Dreaded it, wondered what you would be like if you were old. Just as clever, I'd bet. Perhaps even more annoying, if that's possible._

Mrs. Hudson's footsteps faded behind him, and he was alone. Again.

_That night at the hospital. If someone had woke me up and told me: this is your last day with him; that insufferable bastard in the corning bouncing that rubber ball around...I wouldn't have been able to stand it. The adventures that were waiting for us, how could you abandon them? How could you abandon me? All I have now is our memories. And I don't have a mind palace with a triple-locked vault and armed bodyguards where I can place you. All I have left, Sherlock, are these memories. And they're going to disappear because you aren't here anymore. These are the thoughts that you left me to live in, good days and bad days and cop chases. I'm left with this collection, that has finally stopped growing. How dare you cut our lives short, Sherlock? How dare you give me everything, only to take it away?_

He didn't quite notice the transition when he moved away from angry thoughts and began physically begging the dirt beneath his feet to come back to life. When his own pained voice finally reached his ears, he fell silent. Sherlock, who had performed miracles all his life, had simply refused his only wish. And as John stood there in silence, he realized how delusional he had really become. He refused to accept Sherlock's death, and he was begging a stone to bring him back. Ashamed, tired and finally past denial, he turned to limp away with his last visit. A young gravedigger stared through his dust-speckled glasses at the broken soldier. He looked over to the tall, lanky man standing by the grove of oak trees. Dark curls spilled out from his head, a navy scarf was wound tightly around his neck. He, too, was watching John Watson. Then, as if linked by some magical puppet strings, the two turned at precisely the same moment, and walked away.


	2. Chapter 2

John trudged up the last few steps to his flat before noticing the door. Slightly ajar, yet he clearly remembered shutting it on his way out for work in the morning. His watch told him it was 3:04pm, and Mary had informed him the night before that she wouldn't be home until late evening. He called out for her anyways. She had been a little more unpredictable and rowdy since his proposal two weeks earlier.

"Mary?" His voice resonated through the walls of the apartment, which Sherlock once shot many times over in a fit of boredom. There was no response, and he carefully slipped through the door. The kitchen was just as he'd left it. The old fridge had been replaced, as John didn't feel safe eating food that had been stored in the same place as various body parts. The microwave was new too, he had once had a nightmare of Sherlock's eyeballs haunting him from the small kitchen appliance. Sherlock's tea set, however, remained polished and unused in the left cupboard. The sight of it used to cause John great pain, but it had eventually passed, along with everything else related to Sherlock. His violin was packed away neatly in John's closet, his knife and skull in the possession of Mrs. Hudson (God knows what she would have done with them). Even the Cluedo board was cleansed from the apartment. John scanned over the living room, suspecting Mrs. Hudson to have visited, but everything was still as disorganized as ever. Mary had tried to clean up the place, but John had consistently made messes everywhere. It reminded him of Sherlock. But Mary had insisted on Spring cleaning after the proposal, and John had decided after three years, he was well past the idea of keeping his flat in the same state Sherlock would have liked it. The death had finally been reduced to a memory, and his new life had kept him happy and busy.

Which is why John froze in shock and nearly fell over when his eyes fell on the familiar dark locks and blazing blue-green eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

He was sitting there, in his armchair, fingers pressed up along his nose in his typical thinking pose. His was fitted nicely in his eggplant shirt, cuffs buttoned around his wrists. John swivelled around to the door, where Sherlock's long black coat and dark blue scarf hung loosely on the hook. Mary's bright pink raincoat looked out of place, buried under Sherlock's clothing. Turning back slowly to the living room, John waited for the image to disappear from his head.

_Delusional. How could this happen? I've been perfectly fine for almost twelve months, and even in the bad moments...never hallucination. Oh dear god, perhaps it was those pills yesterday, those suspicious yellow tablets that were meant for my sinuses. I knew I should have gone with the orang-_

"I'm not a hallucination." Sherlock's deep baritone voice interrupted his thoughts. He was unmoving, still staring out into the distance as if he were captivated by some invisible puzzle. John refused to speak back.

_ Great. So it's affected my hearing too, those bloody meds. Ridiculous, really. And my mind, it's got him right-on, even after three years. Even the pattern of his scarf is the same!_

"Actually, it is a new scarf. Same pattern, of course, I couldn't quick sneak the original out from the Morgue. Molly probably kept it, she has a strange fascination for my things."

John didn't move either, eyes fixed on the hallucination of his best friend.

_Of course. He can read my thoughts because he's a figm-_

"I am not a figment of your imagination." Now he sounded mildly annoyed, as if disappointed by John's conclusion. "Nor am I a ghost," He added, before John could even consider the idea. Finally, he relaxed his hands and turned to observe his doctor. "And I could always read your thoughts, imaginary or not." The piercing gaze caught Watson off guard, and he put his hand down on the kitchen table to prevent himself from toppling over. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and Watson instinctively prepared himself for a long-winded analysis of himself.

"Late night yesterday? Don't worry, that's not the reason I'm here. A cold? Pity, the weather's just starting to warm up. No, the iron isn't broken, that crease was formed from laziness. Wait-no, tired hands. So she's dedicated and thoughtful, but perhaps worn out. She tries so hard to clean up you know, you shouldn't insist on making such a mess. Although I suppose you'll clean it out before the ceremony, so you have a nice clean place to come back to after the honeymoon. No, John, Hawaii is boring, why can't you place somewhere more exotic? Always so predictable. So you'll be going with the typical black suit for the wedding, then? Ah, poor Harriet, still uninvited. At this rate she'll be reduced to a blubbering imbecile by December. Speaking of which, you shouldn't slam the door so hard when Mycroft visits, he just wanted to wish you a happy new year. Hah, who am I kidding? I'm impressed with you, taking such a dislike to dear Mycroft. However, do be careful on those hinges, last time Mrs. Hudson asked for renovation help the thug almost shot her! Oh but you don't quite know about that. Right right, I apologize. By the way, why haven't you taken your shoes off yet? And yes, you paid far too much for those, the store manager is exploiting your entire-"

"Shut up." John's voice was strained, and seemed to resemble more of a growl than human speech. Sherlock paused, then closed his mouth. Cautiously, as if the carpet were lined with explosives, John moved into the living room and allowed himself to fall into his chair, staring at the man who rose from his grave. Sherlock's eyes followed his limp, and flickered across his body to list a thousand more facts about his friend since he had jumped off St. Bartholomew's hospital three years ago. There was a brief hesitation before he raised his eyes to see the blank stare of John Watson. It worried him a little, he was expecting a punch in the face, or perhaps being tackled into the telly. Instead, a silence stretched out between them which seemed to last longer than the days he'd been away. At last, John spoke.

"You're dead." It wasn't a question, a threat, or an accusation. There was no spite or doubt behind his voice. It was a statement, and a frown flitted briefly across Sherlock's face. It was an odd feeling, being demanded dead. Seeing it on a file from Molly was very different from hearing John say it to his face.

"Am I really?" Sherlock's voice was dry. John did not respond, unable to bring himself to accept the fact that he had missed that rumbling deep voice more than any other sound in the world. His memory was hurting him terribly, and his thoughts wandered back to the various medications he had taken in the past week. Sherlock sighed, "You're not drugged. Just believe yourself, for god's sake." John's face suddenly crumpled, as if his great wall had been broken down by a couple words. Sherlock leaned back instinctively. John raised his chin in a small act of defiance, and his fingers started to tremble.

"No, Sherlock, you're dead. I saw your bloody head smashed open on concrete, three years ago. Remember? You stood on that roof, and called me, and told me you were a bloody fraud. You said you researched me, and you said good bye, and Jesus Christ, you threw yourself off that building and died!" His breath was now ragged, and his eyes were wet. Sherlock waited for him to calm down.

"I realize this is all very hard to explain, especially to your stressed mind. But I assure you, John, that I am not dead. In fact, I am very much alive," Sherlock paused for a moment, giving an oh-so-rare apologetic grin before commenting cheekily, "Just sitting here and wishing for a cup of tea." The last comment was unnecessary, but John gladly took it as an excuse to look away from those sharp cheekbones and pointed nose. He shuffled into the kitchen once again and pulled the cupboard open a little harder than necessary. The interaction between the two was even more irregular than usual. John barely felt the need to say anything, still firm in his belief that he was hallucinating. The teacups clinked against each other as he roughly set it down on the counter, and Sherlock frowned. John kept the tea set which he had shared with Moriarty. A lovely tea set, but surely he did not know about past usage. Sherlock watched with concern as a teacup fell over; he was still quite found of that particular china.

"I'm making tea for my hallucination," John drawled, jerking slightly as he started the kettle. A sharp laugh escaped his throat, entirely humourless. "Ridiculous, it really is." Sherlock stared at John's back in silence, listening carefully to his drabble. "I saw you, I really did." His voice was strained once again, as if they words were being forced out into the air. "I took your pulse, you were still warm. They pulled me away, I told them-told them you were my friend." His hands were shaking as he found the right teabags in the drawer. Mary disliked tea, so he never had to worry about missing teabags. "The paramedics took you away. Your eyes were still open, as blank as the sky you were staring at." The kettle whistled and whined, the water threatening to bubble over. "They took me away. And all I could hear was the echo of your damned voice, your last note." He spat the word out, as if it had tainted his mouth. Sherlock remembered the moment clearly. His mind had been racing with the calculations of the jump, simultaneously worrying over John's location. But when his friend screamed his name, and he threw away that phone-his last lifeline, it was as if the entire world reoriented around him. The sorrow and sentiment he was implanting into John's mind, the effect it would have on the both of them! It flooded his head, and he almost toppled over. Sherlock Holmes was never scared of death. There, in that moment, he had been scared of living. He closed his eyes for a brief moment to clear his thoughts, and envisioned the gunman waiting to shoot down the valiant army doctor. The thug smiling sweetly at poor Mrs. Hudson. The killer sitting a couple desks away from the noble detective inspector. Falling was barely a decision, and he could hear the wind whistling in his ears as he plummeted.

_Don't worry, John._ He didn't have to see the cyclist to know that John had just been roughly knocked into the ground, a much harder fall than his drop into the large truck of garbage bags. Diving out onto the sidewalk slick with his blood, he caught a flash of Molly running back into the Hospital just before his hired crowd surrounded him, perfecting the scene as John struggled to stand.


	3. Chapter 3

John set the tea down on the table. Sherlock had yet to lift a finger, but his eyes were locked on the sad imprints of his death in the crinkles around John's eyes. John stared at him emotionlessly.

"You look tired." Stated Sherlock, an useless (and already noted) observation. The words had no purpose, except to fill the silence around them. It was something Sherlock never did, but in that moment, the silence had started to bother him. Back in the old Baker Street, _his _Baker Street, the silence had shaped clear moment for him to think. John also took pleasure in his silence, and so Sherlock occasionally went out of his way to make ridiculous noises at the most inconvenient times. He made up for it with his excellent violin during festive days, or so he liked to think. The silence was always the sign of mutual agreement, and he relished in the swift moments of silence, back in the old Baker Street. The silence had started to bother him after the fall. But it had never mattered, because he was alone. Alone, pick-pocketing his way through Europe, Asia and America to destroy the last of Moriarty's web. The silence had been his protection, smothering him like a blanket. And yet, here he was, back in the company of his flatmate. Regretful, delighted, and struggling to break the silence.

John picked up his saucer and tea, blowing softly to cool the scalding liquid. Sherlock tapped his fingers restlessly; "You still don't believe that I'm here. Alive." John took a sip, knowing full well it would burn him. The sensation confirmed that he was conscious. He felt no need to respond to Sherlock, seeing as his friend was dead, and this incident was simply a note to himself saying he'd gone mad.

"My deductions," Sherlock sighed, referring to his earlier rant, "They were correct, no?" John paused, then tilted his head slightly. It was enough. "What's her name?" John froze, teacup against his lip. His romantic life was far from interesting to Sherlock. The most Sherlock had ever done was laugh over his poetic emails, and almost kill his coworker Sarah on their first date. The man sitting in front of him was definitely not Sherlock. With this realization, (or verification, for that matter) John relaxed.

"Mary," He said, sipping his tea once again. Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It was clear that John was blaming his existence on personal delusion. He regretted showing any interest in this new woman, but considering the fact that she was now living in his flat and waiting to marry his best friend, he felt compelled to ask. "Ordinary name. Mary and John," Sherlock rolled the names around in his mouth, as if testing the taste. "She's lovely, although I'm not quite sure you two would get along," John retorted. Having a conversation with his hallucination wasn't turning out so bad, he _had_ missed Sherlock, after all. His eyes darted to the open door and the window as he hoped nobody was watching or hearing him. Sherlock followed his eyes, and resisted the temptation to chuckle. _He's worried about people thinking he's mad. This might actually be a more peaceful solution of contacting John than having him believe I'm alive._

John continued to stare at Sherlock with complete concentration. Sherlock sat there, and for the first time, felt mildly uncomfortable in the presence of his only friend.

"When are you going to leave?" John inquired, stone gaze fixed on Sherlock's confused stare. "Leave? My dear John, I was aware this-" Sherlock swept his long arms in a graceful arc, "-was our home. And I have returned!" John tried to laugh, but choked on his tea and it came out as a gurgle. Sherlock's forehead creased into a frown. "Did you not miss me? I was expecting a joyous celebration, to say the least." His sarcasm slipped past his lips on the last line. John did not look particularly impressed, but stayed silent. _Perhaps,_ he mused to himself, _he will simply disappear on his own. It would especially bothersome if this vision stayed all the way until Mary got home._ _Oh bloody hell, who am I kidding? Sherlock, hallucination or not, will forever pester me to the ends of the Earth._

Sherlock watched every flicker in John's eye, deciphering each thought as it passed through the blonde man's muddled head. "John?" He protested, "I would never pester you." He looked insulted at the idea, "I bring excitement to your life, that's all. Haven't you missed our adventures?" John rested his head on his hands, letting out a long sigh. "Of course I have, Sherlock. But they were more misadventures, and you're dead now." He brought his face up, peeking at Sherlock's smug grin through his war-riddled fingers. "I have a life now, it's different and less exciting, but it's nice. Now please, just walk out that door and let me clean up this tea and clean up before Mary comes home. And take your imaginary jacket with you." Sherlock stopped listening halfway, and had his fingers resting against his lips once more, in a praying position.

"John," His name came out as a mix between a grumble and a whisper. "I want to be back. I want to be here. I worked so hard to get back here." John remained silent. Sherlock's voice was uncertain, the rare tone that he had only heard once before. And he had been strapped to a bomb jacket and struggling to stand in an indoor pool with one psychopath facing against another sociopath. Sherlock's eyes dragged slowly up to John's face. Sherlock's eyes were always shifting in colour; sometimes blue, sometimes green, sometimes grey. The day at the hospital, they had been a sad grey-green that reflected the stormy skyline. Today, they were a piercing shade of cobalt. Sherlock suddenly jerked back, and his typical satisfied smirk crossed his face.

"What?" John inquired, perhaps a bit too harshly. It bothered him, the various faces of Sherlock Holmes. For the most part, they created a sense of inferiority in John yet ultimately told him nothing. Sherlock's expression didn't change, but he slowly reached out and picked up his teacup, balancing the handle delicately on his index finger. John blinked. Once, twice, and then again. He put his hands over his face, as if he were trying to block out the image in front of him. When he peeked through his fingers again, Sherlock was sipping the tea carefully, his analytical eyes tracing the crinkles around John's eyes. The teacup was in the air, there was no doubt about that. Sherlock slurped the last couple drops, then placed the teacup back onto the tray. It was empty. John looked at the teacup, then back to Sherlock.

_Teacups don't float._ John's thoughts felt methodical and useless.

_Tea does not magically disappear._ John felt the anger seeping through cracks, as if his heart had been carefully damaged to allow leakage.

_I poured tea in that teacup. _It felt like flames, now shooting out from his chest and bundling his fingers into fists.

_That tea is now gone._ It was all a bit of a blur. Well, to be fair, it was a bit of a blur for John. Sherlock saw the action coming clearly, but he welcomed it all the same. John's fist connected with his left cheekbone with great force, but not enough to actually break anything. Sherlock was pushed backwards into his plush armchair, and then the compact army man promptly tackled him out of the seat altogether. Soon, they were on the floor, Sherlock attempting to fend off the lashes that were being thrown at his face and head. Amidst the pain and angry noises John was emitting, Sherlock found some sort of peace in the situation. The blow to his head told him that John had finally accepted the fact that he was back, and now things would slowly restore themselves back to normal. Sherlock was home now, and his life had finally returned.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock sat on the kitchen stool with a rather annoyed look crossing over his angular features. John gently wiped the blood off of the indignant man's face with an old dishcloth, shameful but not quite ready to apologize for his earlier attack. His outburst had been rather sudden, although he was sure Sherlock would have seen it coming. Now he was tending to a couple small cuts and the large purple blotch beginning to blossom on the left side of Sherlock's face. As John cleaned out a small gash behind Sherlock's right ear he made a mental note never to tackle the lanky detective into any corner of 221B Baker street; microscope slides and other sharp objects were always lying around somewhere. Sherlock jerked back reflexively as John patted the cut with rubbing alcohol. Even the great Sherlock Holmes couldn't control his nervous impulses, and he made an unpleasant hissing noise as John continued to tend to his injuries. John threw the small dishcloth into the sink, and firmly gripped Sherlock's head, turning it left and right to check for any other possible wounds. When he was satisfied, he let go and Sherlock promptly jumped off the stool and settled into his armchair once again.

"So, I think you owe me an explanation." John cleared his throat, and Sherlock remained unresponsive. John took a deep breath, "Sherlock, you've been gone for three years. I think you owe me an-"

"I heard you perfectly the first time." John pursed his lips together in an unusual face of frustration, and nodded.

"I'm trying to think of a way to explain without shocking you or pushing you into a dreaded state of shame or grief." John's eyes widened in offense. "Me, shamed? You're the one who left me, you bloody git!" Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Yes, Doctor, to save your life." John's eyes narrowed, "And since when did you care about anyone's life?" The blanket of silence descended softly.

"I've always cared, John. I've cared so much that I knew I had to remove all possible sentiment from my mind if I wanted to maximize the chances of saving a life." A small crease formed at the top of Sherlock's nose, right in-between in his eyes. John recognized it as the hint of a rare scenario in which Sherlock was emotionally frustrated. "If I allowed my emotions to take hold, we would both be dead and rotting right now. Along with Ms. Hudson, and Lestrade." John's breath caught in his throat as the officer's name struck a chord in his mind; "Lestrade...Sherlock, we have to go see Lestrade!" He cried, jumping to his feet. "He resigned from Scotland Yard after his death, or at least that's what they said. I heard he punched Anderson and reduced Sally to tears, and so they had to ask him to leave. He hasn't been doing so well, you need to go see him. He threw away his reputation for you." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "John, I'm dead, remember? I doubt Lestrade would enjoy the return of a ghost detective who was always an accurate reminder of his poor intelligence and worthlessness." He ran his finger along the edge of his armchair, enjoying the rough and familiar feel of the seams beneath his skin.

"Besides, I need to clear my name before I go around visiting any old friends." Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the good doctor, "Everyone still thinks I'm a fraud, no?" John subconsciously bit down on his lower lip, recalling the massive amounts of nosy reporters that use to block the front entrance of Baker St. The first year had been terribly inconvenient for all of Ms. Hudson's tenants. "Yes," He coughed uncomfortably, reaching for a glass of water, "Yes, they do." Sherlock turned to stare at John with his piercing eyes. "But you never stopped believing," He stated softly, and John's breath caught in his throat, "You never stopped believing in me." John felt as if Sherlock's gaze could easily burn through his flesh, yet he could not bring himself to look away. It was true, John had never allowed his belief in Sherlock to falter over the years. Even when Sherlock's words haunted his dreams; _I researched you,_ John would wake up drenched in his own sweat and scream at the world from the small window of his bedroom, "What are you trying to do? I know he was real, he was everything, everything and you're the idiot for believing the lies!" There was one night when he forgot that Mary had stayed over, and her sweet breath tickled his neck as she wrapped her thin arms around his shoulders. Goose bumps formed across her skin as she shivered, partly from the cold air and partly from fear.

"John," She had whispered, voice shaking, "John, come back to bed." And he had complied, mindlessly crawling back into those covers. He buried his head in the pillows, taking in deep ragged breaths as he tried to block out the harsh city that had turned on his best friend. Mary had not been able to sleep that night, even after her shaking soldier finally stopped quivering and fell into a fitful slumber. She tiptoed out into the living room, looking at the collection of artefacts she never dared to touch. They were all memories of Sherlock, she understood that. A great man who had made John what he was, and the detective surrounded them in every aspect of their lives. She had wept silently, angered by the stranger who had left her fiancé in such a terrifying state. She only knew him by John's words and the horrid articles written by the unreliable press. She always felt that the house was missing something. The skull, the Cluedo board and the old violin were only vacant objects when there was no spirit to fill them. She wondered how empty the place must have felt when John was alone. Nevertheless, she begged for the man to never come back. He was dead, she knew that, yet she still had nightmares of his return. Perhaps she was afraid of losing John, or maybe losing herself with the dark secrets that Sherlock could uncover. She told John of her dreams once, over a nice breakfast of pancakes and eggs.

"I had a dream of your roommate," She had explained, lightly sprinkling her plate with salt and pepper, "He stormed back in here and ordered me out." It was unfair, she knew, to mention such a dream to John. And sure enough, he stiffened immediately and put his fork down. "Well, he's not coming back, so you have nothing to fear." Mary began cutting up her pancake, "I know. It was painful though. He still lives within this house, doesn't he? Within your memories." It was a terrible conversation for breakfast, and John suddenly lost his appetite. Mary continued on, "He was everything once, and it worries me that he would still be everything if he returned." She poured maple syrup onto the corner of her plate, and it drizzled down to form a pool by her eggs. John pushed back his chair and headed towards the door, grabbing his coat. He still had an hour before his shift at work, but the room had become stifling and unbearable. "You love me, don't you John?" Mary cried from the table, standing to follow him. "You love me, but oh he was so much more." She could feel her eyes becoming wet against her will. "They got it all wrong, those reporters. He wasn't your boyfriend, nothing like it. It had nothing to do with romantic feelings, but he...oh, he was your everything. He was your life, and your universe, and everything that had ever happened to you." John was struggling to put on his shoes, his own vision blurred by tears. Mary stumbled across the kitchen floor, wiping her cheeks on her sleeve. "Your life began when he walked in that day at the lab, your day with Stamford." He had told her the story of their first meeting hundreds of times. She could practically see the smirking Sherlock as his eyes darted over Harry's old phone. "And for all I know, it ended when he left you. Left you all alone, with nothing, standing over his broken body at the bottom of St. Bartholomew's Hospital." There was so much weight crushing John, he could not handle it all. He collapsed against the chipped doorframe as Mary kneeled down next to him.

"But it's alright," She whispered, caressing his face with her small hands. They were cold, and John wanted to shrink away from her touch. Yet there was a warmth that filled his body as he looked at her tearful face. She had become a part of him that day, with that dream. She had shared his pain, and all the memories that he had shared in fear that he might forget them one day. She had been his safe, where he buried all his secrets and his hurt and all of his life with Sherlock. And she was the safe keeper, the one who had to retain all the memories that he cherished. Mary kissed him softly, brushing the tears from his eyelashes.

"It's alright." She had murmured, stroking his hair; "Life may have ended for you when Sherlock died," He closed his eyes, "But I am more than willing to spend death with you."

And her words had saved him. They slowly began to fill the cracks left in John, they had acted as the needle and thread which pulled through him to close up all the cuts and gashes hidden beneath his flesh. Sherlock had given him life, and then killed them both. John had been left there on the earth, no longer alive but not yet dead. And Mary had pulled him from that grey area of numbness and anger and pain, she had gently drawn him back out into the light. It was no longer life, now that Sherlock was gone. Instead, she had labelled it as death, and sweetened their existence so he could wake up in the mornings with a reason to rise out of bed. They both cried that day, sitting next to each other on the floorboards. She had said no more, and the silence covered them both in a comforting emptiness. He ended up being late for work, but something changed in him when he arrived at the clinic that day. Sarah had sensed it immediately, looking up from her clipboard with a confused expression as he stepped into the lobby. Unable to pinpoint the difference, she gave him a quick lecture about punctuality and gave him a list of patients for the day.

The change wasn't visible. You couldn't hear it, or taste it or feel it with your fingertips. Dr. John Watson experienced a change of heart. He was finished with suffering, done with the pain. He was tired of being angry and bitter and scared. He had found a companion in death, or rather, she had found him. Mary brought out a new part of him that he had never seen before; and while it could never cover the absence of Sherlock, John understood that it was time to grow away from the rotting piece of him tied to a spirit in the heavens. He strolled down the white hallways of the health centre, listening to the echoes of his footsteps. As he walked, John felt a smile spread across his face, unable to contain his joy and relief of a life brought back into existence.


End file.
